Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

Slate fell forward and caught himself on his hands again, whimpering.

The sounds of combat were gone. The noise of people screaming had died as well, though in the distance a dead boy wept with less fervor, perhaps one step closer to accepting his fate.

Crowley put his weapon away and helped Lucas Slate to his feet.

“Are you well, Mister Slate?”

“I am not, sir. But I am alive and I thank you for that.” His voice was fainter than usual.

“You’ll have to be well enough.” Crowley squinted as he looked around. “You take the Indians and I’ll handle the soldiers.”

“What do you mean?”

“I intend to stop this damned fighting before one or both of us is killed.”

Lucas Slate nodded, hefted his shotgun and looked toward the direction the Indians had gone, the direction of most of the fighting.

As he walked, he murmured under his breath, words to a song that no one else in the vicinity could hear or understand. The furious red marks on his torso rapidly faded, first to pink and then to the same color as the rest of his flesh.

He was learning. The song had many, many notes and Slate suspected he would not know them all for years, but for now he learned how to heal himself with the song and it was a start.

Crowley found Sergeant Fowler and his men gathered near the far side of town, following orders. They were there to make sure the Indians didn’t storm in from the other side of the area, and likely to clear a path should it become necessary to flee Silver Springs.

Crowley walked directly up to the sergeant while the man watched warily.

“Sergeant?”

The man nodded and came toward him with caution. There was no telling where a man might stand on the Indians. Most agreed they should be sent away, but wise soldiers didn’t take that for granted.

The spell was simple, and one of the very first he’d learned ages ago. Crowley didn’t like using sorcery on human beings, but if he had to, he made exceptions.

“Sergeant, I’m sorry to inform you that your captain and most of the rest of your soldiers are dead. They were killed by the Indians, who are fleeing even as we speak. You’ve won the battle, but the cost was high.”

There was truth to his words, but only as much as he needed. He could have told the man that it was the heart of summer and he’d have agreed. That was how sorcery worked.

“I’m sure they fought bravely.” The sergeant’s voice was slightly slurred.

“Of course they did. They fought valiantly and they won. But wouldn’t it be best if you returned to your base camp and reported in? If more Indians should come back they might see your presence as a challenge and you can’t do your duty if you’re all dead.”

The sergeant looked around uncertainly. There were seven men with him. The rest were elsewhere or dead.

“Yes, of course. We’ll head for home.”

“An excellent idea, Sergeant. You have to make sure your men are safe, after all.”

He finished the incantation. The sergeant would forget having seen his face. The men around him would remember only that the sergeant had been informed of their pyrrhic victory and nothing else.

A short walk had him reuniting with Slate and with the man who stood near him. Stinky Napier was clean and sober, his eyes haunted by the sights that Crowley didn’t need to see to understand. There were dead men up ahead and likely a lot of them if the sounds from earlier were anything to be judged by.

Crowley smiled broadly for him. Napier flinched a bit but stood his ground.

“And is the town still alive, Mister Napier? Or are we the only survivors?”

“Oh, there are more, Mister Crowley. The Indians only wanted the soldiers. They were good about not shooting anyone else.” He frowned a moment. “Can’t say the same for all the soldiers. Some of those boys shot anything that moved.”

“Still think the red men are all heathens?”

“Absolutely. Doesn’t mean I have to hate them. I just know they do not properly worship Jesus Christ.”

Crowley shook his head and said nothing. That was a story he was wise enough not to touch on.

“Your friend is very persuasive.” Napier’s voice caught him off guard.

“How so?”

Slate chuckled to himself. He was looking remarkably healthy for a man whose chest had been nearly broken open twenty minutes earlier.

Napier eyed him dubiously but continued on. “Walked right up to the Indians where they were getting ready to have a bit of fun with the soldiers and put a stop to it.”

Crowley’s grin was quick and savage. “And what did you say to them, Mister Slate?”

Slate looked directly at him. “Leave.” He shrugged. “They left.”

“So the Indians are gone and the soldiers are leaving.” Crowley nodded, a satisfied expression crossing his features and feeling decidedly alien there.

“Can’t be that many soldiers left.” Napier’s frown deepened and he looked around. “I don’t reckon that’s a bad thing just now.”

Slate spoke up, his voice still pained. “Might we be on our way, Mister Crowley? I’m feeling a bit faint.”

Mister Napier opened his mouth to say something else, but one look from Slate silenced him.

When the morning came the two men claimed their horses from the stables. A surprising number of the Cavalry’s horses were gone, despite the lack of riders, but no one was foolish enough to try for theirs.

Outside, the remaining soldiers were gathering together, preparing to head northeast, toward Camp Woodbine, if Crowley was remembering properly.

“Where are we headed today, Mister Crowley?”

Crowley looked at his companion and shrugged. The weather was hideous, but that was hardly unusual. “I took the time to listen to a few men chatting last night, after you had gone to sleep. The men were French and talking about Loup Garou .”

Slate frowned. “Werewolves?”

“You speak French, Mister Slate?”

“Not as well as I speak English, but I can manage. Spent a bit of time in Louisiana and dealt with my fair share of Cajuns.”

Crowley nodded. “We’re heading west, Mister Slate. We shall discuss what happened here when you feel more inclined to discussing the matters, but we are heading west to see if there are, in fact, werewolves hiding somewhere in the region.”

“You don’t suppose it’s merely wolves?”

“No. In my experience, wolves very rarely attack wagon trains.”

Slate nodded. “Well then, I imagine this will be an interesting journey.” The man seemed distracted and Crowley simply nodded. Let him have his time to think.

As they rode, Lucas Slate listened to the song that always played for him and, in listening, began to comprehend.

Thank you to all who contributed:

David Stegora

Stefan Taylor

Jon Edwards

Robert Fleck

Lucas K. Law

Andrew Hatchell

Jaime McDougall

Kevin McAlonan

H Michael Casper

Samantha Warren

Marty Young

D. Nicklin-Dunbar

Deborah Sheldon

Jason Carr

Gerry Huntman

Nathaniel Buchanan

And the many who did so without a public name.

Thanks